


Carnival

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: F/M, M/M, Murdoc and Paula are platonic friends with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-05 08:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: Stuart is the star performer in Tusspot's Travelling Circus, a good old fashioned circus offering fun for all the family.Murdoc is the ringmaster of the Carnival, a rag tag band of performers too twisted for your standard circus.Their paths cross. They don't get along. Featuring gold bell bottoms, mean nicknames and men in stilettos.[Complete]





	1. Chapter 1

The music coming from the warehouse is deafening.

“Must be a rave or something,” David half yells, as they look across the playing field at the source of the commotion.

“Must be,” Stuart agrees, though he doubts many raves take place on Wednesday afternoons in playing fields near Derby. The music is hard to make out, beyond being loud and bass heavy. It doesn't seem like dance or chart music.

“D’you want to go and see if they'll turn it down?” David asks. “If they won't I guess we'll have to ring the police on them.”

“Alright dad.”

Stuart walks across the field, frowning as he sees people skitter between various caravans and the warehouse. All of them appear to be dressed in monochromatic outfits, many of which are skimpy. He climbs through a sizeable hole in the chain link fence and manages to grab the attention of a blonde woman in baggy black trousers and a white vest top. She gives Stuart's gold lamé bell bottoms a judgmental look. 

“Um, hello,” he offers with a smile. He's forced to yell over the music pounding out of the warehouse. Closer to the source, it sounds sort of like dub but also like something else entirely. It's new to Stuart. “What's going on here?” 

“Rehearsal,” she offers curtly, making to walk to one caravan.

“Rehearsal for what?”

“The Carnival.”

“Is it a rave?”

“I'm busy” she says, carrying on her way.

“It's just you're being really loud and we're setting up our circus and-” Stuart gets angrier as she ignores him. She's about to slip inside the caravan. “Who's in charge?”

The woman looks back over her shoulder, apparently amused at the question. After a moment's consideration, she gestures to the far side of the warehouse.

“He's in his winnebago. I wouldn't bother.”

With that, she steps inside the caravan and closes the door. Stuart turns to look at the warehouse again. People weave around him, carrying crates and poles inside the cavernous entrance, occasionally shooting him questioning looks as they pass. Curiosity gets the better of Stuart and he peers inside. People are erecting what looks like metal rigging for aerial work and hanging strings of plain white lights. Others are installing padded flooring and crude seating along three sides of the building.

It's not a rave.

Stuart marches back outside and heads where the woman had indicated. He misses it on the first and second pass but, sure enough, tucked among the caravans is a clapped out winnebago with a gold star spray painted on the door. Stuart knocks in the middle of the star. 

“Who is it?” comes a man’s voice, gruff and northern. The door stays shut.

“Um, Stuart Tusspot,” Stuart offers.

“Tosspot?”

“Tusspot.”

“You from the council?” the voice sounds closer to the door.

“No.”

“Then fuck off Tosspot."

Stuart’s jaw sets. He knocks harder and doesn't stop until the door opens a crack. He makes out an eye, seemingly wearing smokey make up, and a heavy black fringe.

“What part of “fuck off” are you struggling with?” the man asks coolly. Then, he appears to clock Stuart's costume and his eye creases in amusement. “You lost your ABBA tribute band, Tosspot?”

“I'm a performer in Tusspot’s Travelling Circus,” Stuart explains. He gestures across the playing field. “We're performing here this week and you're making a racket. What’re you even doing?”

“Last time I checked it was none of your business,” whoever-it-is says as he pushes the winnebago door open. Stuart does a double take when he sees the man's outfit: he's wearing a crisp white shirt, dark grey waistcoat and an immaculate black velvet ringmaster tailcoat with gunmetal grey brocade. The clothes have to be custom made, judging by how well they fit him. Stuart pans down to see that he's wearing a pair of pointy black stilettos. 

The outfit's effect is somewhat lost since the man is also swigging a can of Strongbow. The ringmaster (if that is what he is) stares out from under his flop fringe at Stuart's eyes. Stuart stops looking at the man's costume and returns the look levelly.

“What's with your eyes?” the ringmaster asks. Stuart is used to the question but it's not usually so blunt.

“I fell.”

The ringmaster looks unconvinced. His gaze flicks up to Stuart's hair.

“And the hair?”

“After I fell, I went bald, then it grew back blue.”

The ringmaster sniffs his can of Strongbow and mutters to himself about not being that drunk.

“This isn't a rave, is it?” Stuart asks. He's back to looking at the man's high heels and knobbly ankles.

“There's no flies on you, Tosspot.”

Stuart remembers what the woman had called it: the Carnival.

“Is this a circus?”

“Of sorts. Yeah.”

“D’you have a licence?”

The ringmaster’s eyes narrow.

“So you are with the council.”

“I'm wearing gold lamé. Of course I'm not with the council.”

“I have a licence.”

“For this? To perform here?”

The ringmaster’s eyes narrow further. “You're a nosy sod aren't you?” He wafts a hand at Stuart as he makes to close the winnebago door. “Jog on Tosspot, I've got stuff to do. Go back to your human pyramid or whatever it is you do.”

Stuart got on with everyone. It makes him feel uneasy, being faced with such antagonism. Stuart had wanted to avoid doling out threats but he finds he can stomach the prospect since the ringmaster is a berk. 

“I'll call the police if you don't turn it down.”

The ringmaster scowls and finishes his cider. He lets out an obnoxious belch.

“Alright tough guy, we're all mates here,” the man sneers. “I'll keep it down.”

“Thanks,” Stuart bites out, already walking away.

“Lovely talking,” the ringmaster calls after him. Stuart walks faster, brow furrowed.

“No really I'm so glad we've had this little diary clash!” the ringmaster yells. Stuart flips him off over his shoulder and hears the man guffaw.

As Stuart climbs back through the hole in the fence and walks towards the big top, the music gets quieter. His dad gives him a thankful smile on his return.

“Had a word? Who was it?”

A complete twat, Stuart thinks.

“No-one,” Stuart offers. He can't come up with another description. “Just some twat.”

*

Stuart makes a run out in his dad's car to get groceries the next morning. He even wears his milk bottle bottom glasses to make his mum happy. They make him look an insect.

He's enjoying driving on the early morning roads when he spots one of their colourful posters attached to a lamppost. Or rather, what was one of their posters. It now has a massive white sticker on top of it which just says “CARNIVAL” in black graffiti-style text. Stuart pulls over so he can take a proper look. They've made a clean job of it, even leaving the address, dates and times visible from the original poster since they're presumably the same. Stuart gets back in the car, guns it to Tesco, grabs everything on the shopping list then heads back to the playing fields (keeping to the speed limit, for his mum's sake). He spots two more posters that have been given the same treatment as he goes.

Once he's deposited the groceries in one caravan, Stuart storms across the field, through the hole in the fence and marches over to the winnebago. He bashes his fist against the star on the door. There's a groan of protest from inside.

“What fucking hour d'you call this?” the voice gripes. “Fuck off Russ. You know my rule: never before noon.”

Stuart keeps knocking until the door is yanked open. Whoever-he-is stands there in nothing but off white pants. He's got several tattoos, mostly upside down crosses and pentagrams. Stuart tries not to study them.

“Oh, it's the Lovely Lamé,” the ringmaster sneers as he rubs tiredly at his face. Stuart is wearing jeans and a t-shirt but he doesn't bother correcting him. “We've got to stop running into each other like this.”

“Did you cover our posters with your ones?”

The ringmaster smirks. “What, d’you think some kindly ghost did it?”

Stuart is ready to smack him.

“You can't do that. It's not right. We'd never do that to you."

“Business is business,” the man shrugs. He stares intently at Stuart as he apparently scratches his arse. “No hard feelings.”

“I’ll call the police.”

The ringmaster rolls his eyes. “We've got a licence, we're keeping the noise down. We're being good neighbours. Call ‘em all you like Lamé.”

“Stuart.”

The man holds the doorframe of his winnebago with either hand and leans toward Stuart, never breaking eye contact.

“You want me to know your name?” the man needles in an undertone. “Is that important to you, Stuart?”

Stuart storms off before he does something he'll regret. The takings at the two shows that day are lower than normal.

*

Stuart offers to go into Derby city centre to drum up more interest since takings are down. He even offers to go in costume. He knows he looks a bit of a tit but he's gone through so many of the same gold bell bottoms and turquoise bell sleeved shirts at this point that it feels like a second skin. He's immune to any embarrassment. That and he knows he's still a looker and girls will eye him up regardless.

“There's a discount on family tickets,” he enthuses as he passes out fliers. Some are instantly put in bins or dropped on the pavement but a few people read them with interest.

He's been at it an hour when they arrive. There's three of them: there's a big bald black guy in a white shirt, black waistcoat and trousers. He carries himself with an air of refinement that looks out of place mid morning on Derby high street. There's a bucktoothed woman with choppy black hair who is absolutely Stuart's type. Worse, she's wearing what looks like an old fashioned circus performer dress, the round skirt held up by countless tulle petticoats and a tight fitted bustier. Again, the whole ensemble is black and gunmetal grey with white mid-thigh stockings. Stuart is busy taking mental images of how she looks for future reference so it takes him a moment longer to clock the final member of the group.

The ringmaster.

The bloody ringmaster. Stuart sends a despairing look skyward.

“Alright Double L,” the man says, tipping his top hat in greeting.

Double L? Lovely Lamé, Stuart's brain offers unprompted.

“Stuart,” Stuart corrects him, knee jerk.

“S’what I said,” the ringmaster smiles obnoxiously.

“D'you think you could stand somewhere else?” Stuart asks tersely. “It's a long enough high street.”

“Afraid of a little competition?” the ringmaster asks. In an effort to be the bigger man, Stuart moves further away instead, though he stays close enough that he can keep an eye on them, especially the woman.

They’re definitely more popular with teenagers than he is; they seem entranced at the sight of the trio, especially when the black guy pulls out a pair of drumsticks and drums a distractingly good beat on the nearest lamppost while the woman contorts herself. The ringmaster says something that has the teenagers laughing loudly. Teenagers don't have money for circuses, Stuart thinks to himself. He's not fazed. 

“Discounts for families,” Stuart says again and again as he passes out fliers. He can feel the ringmaster keep shooting him looks. The looks become out and out stares when Stuart really turns on the charm, resulting in a little crowd of young mums and pensioners gathering around him as he cracks jokes and chatters away.

“OUR SHOW’S FREE!” the ringmaster bellows. The whole high street pauses to look at him - burger vendors, street sweepers, pensioners, college students, the lot. The black man, Russel, if Stuart’s eavesdropping is anything to go by, stares at the ringmaster in disbelief. Stuart catches Russel saying the ringmaster is an idiot. The ringmaster is evidently trying to school his expression but his eye is twitching. The man sets his jaw and strides over to Stuart, pushing through the small crowd. He comes to a halt only because the toes of his boots (not stilettos, Stuart thinks, unprompted) have hit the toes of Stuart’s golden dance shoes. The ringmaster presses a simple black and white flier against Stuart's chest. Looking down, Stuart sees his hand is thin, with long fingers and countless silver rings, one in the shape of a cow skull. He's wearing black nail polish.

Stuart refuses to take the flier and it falls to the floor when the ringmaster lets go. Stuart makes a mental note to pick it up and put it in a bin when the man's gone, for his mum's sake.

“You're more than welcome to attend,” the ringmaster says, staying impossibly close. Stuart feels the man's slightly sour breath on his face.

“I'm busy tonight,” Stuart says sardonically. His crowd is dispersing, though some linger nearby, interested to see how this will end.

“We'll move the start time, just for you,” the ringmaster insists, teeth practically bared. “Can't say fairer than that, Stuart.”

Stuart's stomach twists when the man says his name.

“I'm washing my hair.”

The ringmaster’s lip quirks.

“Your lovely blue, clearly-not-dyed, hair.”

“It's not dyed,” Stuart agrees and the ringmaster studies his roots intently as he tries to gauge if he's lying. The man snatches a Tusspot's flyer out of Stuart’s hand and studies it with a scowl. His gaze flicks up to Stuart's face.

“Sounds delightful.”

“You're more than welcome to attend,” Stuart parrots sarcastically. The ringmaster keeps watching him and Stuart feels hot under his intense scrutiny.

“I will,” the man says.

*

He does. He sits in the centre of the front row, in his tailcoat and smokey eye make up, arms crossed and a look of complete disdain on his face.

“Kick him out,” Stuart pleads with his dad. His dad adjusts his top hat and gives him a shrug.

“He paid Stu. Until he does something to warrant it, just let him be.”

He doesn't do anything to warrant it, unless looking bored is a punishable offence. Stuart looks out from the ring doors and sees the ringmaster watch the jugglers with glazed eyes, openly yawn at the clowns and check his (fucking) pocket watch when the acrobats come out. The man looks fractionally more interested when the aerial artists perform but it's not saying much.

Stuart had begged Mike to replace him in a couple of numbers on the agreement that he'd do the same for Mike another night so he could have a rendezvous with Laura. Anything to delay the ringmaster's inevitable disdain.

He was going to laugh, Stuart knew. He was going to laugh and laugh and Stuart was going to have to use all his self control not to jump over the side of the ring and throw punches.

Stuart takes a deep breath in as his dad announces him - “the improbable, impossible, incredibly blumming lucky, Stuart Tusspot!” - and he walks out with one arm held aloft as the house applauds. He glances at the ringmaster. He doesn't clap. They share a look before Stuart pointedly looks elsewhere.

Given the circumstances, Stuart is particularly conscious of how trite his act is. He's had it since he was twelve and has basically outgrown it. It's a musical comedy piece, a fictional account of how his eyes turned black and his hair went blue. Stuart had helped his dad write the song while he'd recuperated after his fall. He's since added embellishments to the melody and switched in new lines, mostly to save himself from boredom. He always includes a few basic flips and rolls to add a bit of interest but it's mostly word play and singing. There's a few laughs for the parents, the girls all get crushes on him and the boys think the tumbling is cool. It's a crowd pleaser.

Stuart finishes to a hearty round of applause and soaks up the attention while he sweats under the lights. Suitably buoyed, he lets himself look back at the ringmaster.

The man is staring.

He's not clapping, he's just staring, mouth slightly ajar. His mind is clearly working overtime but Stuart is clueless what he's thinking about. Stuart's hoping Tusspot’s don't wake up to find their car and caravan tyres slashed.

After the show Stuart goes behind his caravan for a fag (and then spray himself liberally with body spray so his mum won't know).

“My name's Murdoc.”

Stuart jumps a foot in the air. He turns, clutching his chest, to see the ringmaster in the gloom.

“Like in the A-Team?” Stuart’s mouth offers before his brain's caught up.

“No K.”

They look at each other, guppy like, as though confused why it's important to know there's no K.

“Did you like the show?” Stuart asks when he comes back to his senses. He doesn't care what the sod thinks, he reminds himself. The hand not clutching his cigarette is balled in a pre-emptive fist.

“Join the Carnival."

No "you should". No "you could".

“You have to join the Carnival," Murdoc says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swing by my tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you wanna say hey (or talk about the fashion choices these guys make).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murdoc initiates stages two and three of his Get Stuart to Join the Carnival plan. 
> 
> Featuring even more terrible nicknames, copious amount of cider and "sexy" juggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there’s anyone with circus skills reading, please feel free to get in touch and correct anything stupid. I can't speak to the safety of any of the acts so please let me know if anything is obviously wrong/dangerous as it's not intended to be completely reckless.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Stuart tells him to piss off. Murdoc sort of saw that coming.

He watches Stuart disappear into the rabbit warren of caravans behind the big top before legging it back to the warehouse bang on time to start the Carnival’s only show of the night. The entire time Stuart’s performance plays, picture perfect, in his head.

Once he’s put away his equipment and can see everyone else is diligently doing the same, Murdoc heads back to his winnebago and lies down with an arm draped over his eyes. One moment, Stuart’s singing to him about how he fell out of a tree and woke up with two dents in his head, the next, a familiar Essex-accented voice is blasting in his ear.

“You were shit last night.”

As usual, it takes a year off his life. Murdoc doesn't bother checking his pocket watch: if Paula is acting as his personal alarm clock, it's guaranteed to be one minute past noon. He squints up at her.

“Thanks Ritz, charming as ever.”

Paula wafts his morning breath away then clambers over him to lay on the far side of the bed. She reaches under the pillow to unearth his cigarettes and lighter and lights them both one.

“He must have been incredible to distract you like that.”

Murdoc nods as he takes a drag. “He's got "it”.”

““It”?”

“Yeah. I can't explain. It's just “it”.”

“And that's why you want him to join?” Paula's expression is dubious.

Murdoc looks at her sidelong. “What’re you implying?”

“I'm implying you want to shag him.”

Murdoc considers lying. They've known each other so long it's a waste of time.

“I also want to do stuff to his penis,” he concedes.

“To his penis?”

“With it, to it, on it. Whatever I can get. Easy pleased, me.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're pathetic?”

“Yeah, you. All the time. And yet here you are, eleven years later,” Murdoc jeers triumphantly. He slings an arm about her waist and gives her cheek an obnoxiously sloppy kiss that borders on a lick. Paula attempts to slap him in the crotch and Murdoc just chuckles, keeping his arm around her.

“Jesus Christ we're old,” Paula scowls. Murdoc grumbles his agreement. “We're moving on in four days, you need to come up with a plan sharpish Dandelion.”

“The first stage of the plan is you stop calling me fucking Dandelion.”

“If you stop calling me Ritz."

“Never. The second stage of the plan is I tell you how stupendously beautiful you are.” Murdoc leers at her. Paula’s eyes are so narrowed they're basically closed.

“What’re you after Dandy?”

“You need to lure Tusspot back over here so I can work my magic on him.”

“Because that worked so well the first time.”

“Last night was a rare departure from form,” Murdoc insists. “And that’s Stuart’s fault for blowing me away.” He threatens to derail his own train of thought thanks to using the words “Stuart” and “blowing me” in the same sentence. Paula clearly senses his distraction.

“Focus, perve. You seriously want him to run away from one circus to join another?”

Murdoc shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you want me to help lure him over?”

“You saw the way he was looking at you in Derby. He was running some risks in those bell bottoms.” Murdoc gets distracted again, this time with thoughts of those nice, snug bell bottoms. He's brought back to his senses by Paula snapping her fingers inches from his face.

“You want me to be a honey trap.” Murdoc can't argue with that so he doesn't try. “You know, you could try not being a massive cunt when you first meet people.”

“I dunno Ritz, sounds like a lot of work.”

“What's in it for me?”

“Sex act of your choice?”

Paula gives him a withering look. “Like I can't get that any day of the week.”

“Fine, what do you want?”

“I want a tank. I want to do an underwater routine.”

Murdoc drops his cigarette butt in an empty cider can and flops back on the bed, huffing a sigh. Paula never made life easy. He's thinking of ways to steal a tank when he sees her dainty little hand hovering over his face, waiting to shake on it.

“We got a deal?”

“How are we getting water to fill a tank every night?”

“You'll figure something out Dandy, you're resourceful."

Murdoc shakes her hand, all limp wristed and slow in a bid to convey his lack of enthusiasm.

“It won't even be a challenge when you’ve told him you're a sword swallower,” Murdoc grumbles. Paula just smiles that smug smile of hers.

*

Stuart is halfway under one of the troupe’s cars when he hears a vaguely familiar voice. Essex. A bit grating.

“I'm looking for the improbable, impossible, incredibly blumming lucky Stuart Tusspot. You seen him?”

He remembers buck teeth and a beauty spot by bright red lips. Then he bashes his forehead on the car’s chassis in his bid to scoot out the creeper as fast as he can. When he's out from under the car, the angle means he's left looking up her petticoats. She spots him, smirking as she offers him a hand. Stuart hastily wipes his hand on a rag before taking hers and Paula pulls him up like it's no effort at all.

“That'd be me.” He gives his hands another hasty rub on the back of his joggers and offers the cleaner hand to shake. “Stuart, and you are?”

Her handshake is too firm, squeezing his bones. “Paula. I saw you in town, you were drawing a crowd.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Stuart’s so clueless as to the reason for Paula’s visit that he doesn't know whether to play it humble or cocky. He's landing somewhere in the middle, he thinks, and coming off nonplussed. He can't think of anything insightful to say so he opts for the obvious. “Your ringmaster watched our show last night.”

“So I hear.”

“Is-” It's the first time he's actually said his name, Stuart realises. “Is Murdoc your brother?”

Paula's eyes widen with apparent horror.

“God I hope not, we've fucked way too much if so.”

Stuart's eyebrows shoot up.

“So, uh, you're a couple?”

“God no, he's too gay for that,” Paula grimaces. “Seriously, do we look alike? I could take serious offence Stuart.”

Stuart attempts to come up with something non-incriminating to say. He tries not to stare at Paula’s anything, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude but, are you here for anything? Not that you can't be here, I just, I mean-”

“Oh, no, I just wanted to come and say hello.” There's a singsong quality to Paula’s voice that Stuart doesn't trust.

“Right.” They've already covered hello, Stuart thinks. Paula seems amused by his discomfort, smiling wider as he keeps fidgeting with the rag in his hands. She eventually puts him out of his misery by glancing over the cars and caravans to the blue and yellow stripes of the big top.

“So you were born into this?”

“Yeah. My great grandad’s dad started Tusspot’s,” Stuart says with a swell of pride. “How about you? Your show seems more,” he tries to be diplomatic, “modern."

“I'm a circus school graduate, Murdoc was a street performer. We kept bumping into each other and I took him in, like a stray dog.”

Stuart files the information away for future reference.

“And you're a contortionist?”

“Contortion, gymnastics. My main act is sword swallowing.”

Stuart thinks about nuns taking showers and his gran (rest her soul) in a bikini.

“Wow, that's bloody dangerous,” he manages.

“I know what I'm doing.” Paula’s tone leaves no room for debate. “What's your routine?”

“I sing, dance, tell some jokes, do a little acrobatics.”

Paula watches him as though expecting a longer list.

“That it?”

“Um, yeah.”

Stuart tries not to cringe while Paula studies him as though looking for a lie.

“I used to do more," he admits, if only to get her to blink. “But I had an accident, so, I don't now.” He's getting a weird feeling that he's sport, an unwitting pawn in some game she's playing. He clears his throat and gestures to the car.

“I really ought to get back to the car if you don't need me to help with anything.”

Paula pouts. Stuart’s fairly sure she's squeezing her arms against her sides to push her breasts out.

“I was hoping we could get to know each other, Stu."

Stuart forgets how to speak momentarily.

“Come back to mine. I promise I’ll bring you home in one piece.” She leans closer to add, “or several, if you’d prefer.”

The trip across the playing field is a blur, Stuart trailing Paula, mind racing with the possibilities. He’s so invested in his daydreams that it takes him a moment to appreciate that she’s not actually walked him to a caravan but into the warehouse.

“Alright Double L.”

The gravelly voice brings Stuart back to his senses and he turns to see Murdoc, juggling in just joggers and day old makeup. He's lazily throwing the clubs in a cascade but changes to an overly elaborate pattern when he sees Stuart watching him. Stuart attempts to identify the pattern with a frown.

“Rubenstein’s Revenge,” Murdoc explains. Stuart tries to follow Murdoc’s arm movements and fails. “How's Ritz been treating you?”

“Ritz?”

“My last name’s Cracker,” Paula offers sourly. “He thinks he's a clever bugger.”

“This is coming from the woman who calls me pissing Dandelion.” Murdoc sees Stuart’s quirked brow. “Murdoc. Burdock. Dandelion and Burdock. It's a stretch.”

“Dandy for short,” Paula says, sneaking over to Murdoc and giving his side a tickle as she says, “you owe me a tank”.

Murdoc squawks, arms flailing, clubs clattering to the floor. He shoots Paula a fond looking scowl before scooping up three clubs in one hand and grabbing another three in the other. He holds those out to Stuart.

“You juggle?”

Stuart looks between Murdoc and Paula as he takes the clubs. “What’s going on?”

“I’m asking if you can juggle,” Murdoc explains, “and you’re not answering.”

“I can juggle a bit. Sorry, what’s this about a tank? Is this some pisstake? Because if it is, I’m gonna g-”

“Four count,” Murdoc interrupts. “I'll pass first.” He taps a beat with his foot and throws the first club. Stuart proceeds to mistime his grab and it falls straight to the floor. Murdoc purses his lips in a playfully unimpressed look.

“You sure you juggle?”

“S’been a while,” Stuart says defensively. “Look, I really need to go if this is all a bloody joke.”

"No joke,” Murdoc insists. “Best of two? Not going to pass up your shot at redemption are you, Stu?”  

Stuart huffs out a sigh then gestures for Murdoc to get on with it. Murdoc starts again and Stuart manages to get the rhythm, though he's screwing up his face with the effort.

“We can stop if you need a shit,” Murdoc grins. Stuart gives him a (probably still constipated looking) scowl before sticking the tip of his tongue out in an effort to focus. Murdoc winks, turns around, throws one club through his legs, then snaps back to face him. Paula lets out an irritated noise.

“God, you're such a show off.”

“Takes one to know one. Have you swallowed anything around him yet?” Murdoc asks, jerking his head at Stuart, who feels himself blush. Murdoc catches sight of him and corrects with a smirk. “Swords, I mean. Mind out the gutter Stu.”

“Not yet.” Paula’s tone is flirtatious. Stuart resists glancing over at her.

“Such a tease Ritz.” Murdoc turns again, throws a club over his shoulder, turns back to face Stuart and nods approvingly as Stuart keeps going. “Not bad.”

“Thanks,” Stuart grits out.

“Talking too, he'll be rubbing his stomach and patting his head next.”

Stuart folds his arms in protest at that. Murdoc manages to catch four out of six clubs while the others fall to the floor.

“Oi, those aren't cheap,” Murdoc grouses.

“What would you know about that, klepto?” Paula scoffs.

“Decent,” Murdoc commends Stuart again as he gathers up the fallen clubs and sets them aside. Stuart nods an terse acknowledgement. “But I'm still trying to figure out what your act is.”

Stuart keeps his arms folded. “What d’you mean?”

“Well it's not singing, dancing and doing a couple of forward rolls, is it?”

Stuart bristles further at that.

“Last night you were begging me to join your “circus”,” Murdoc’s expression curdles at Stuart’s air quotes. “Now I'm just doing forward rolls am I?”

“Fuck off, I don't beg.” Paula looks ready to disagree and Murdoc corrects himself. “Outside of sex, I don't fucking beg, alright?”

Stuart glances over at Paula. She still seems to be intermittently mouthing the word “tank” at Murdoc, who waves a dismissive hand at her. So much for leaving in several pieces, Stuart thinks bitterly.

“Seriously, if that's everything, I think I'll be going. S'been delightful, as ever,” Stuart snaps as he turns to leave.

“You still here ‘til Wednesday?” Murdoc calls after him.

“Yeah. No need to say bye before you leave though, Murdoc,” Stuart mutters on his way out.

*

Murdoc and Paula watch Stuart’s retreating back, Murdoc with a grimace, Paula with an underwhelmed look. It’s not long before they round on each other.

“You call that flirting? You scared the sod!” Murdoc gripes. It doesn't come as a massive surprise: he's seen Paula's flirting in action and it's always resembled a cat playing with a mouse.

“He's too soft,” Paula complains, struggling to keep from laughing. “I couldn't help messing with him. He was still staring at my tits though, horny little bastard.”

“Next time, flirt like a normal person. You could at least have waited ‘til he'd gone before you tried to cash your bloody favour, make it a bit less obvious.”

Paula snorts derisively.

“Oh, like you were subtle,” Paula mimes juggling. ““Oh, Double L, fancy catching me in my jogging bottoms, having a juggle because I reckon it’s sexy”.”

Murdoc scowls at the impression.

“Juggling is sexy.”

“Jesus wept. Try persuading him like a normal person,” Paula berates him. “You need a better plan! You can't trick him into joining and I'm not actually going to sleep with him. He's too sweet for me,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

Murdoc puts his hands on his head as he strides around the warehouse, scheming. He makes a noise of epiphany when another idea come to him. Paula looks suitably dubious.

“Got it.”

“Does the new plan involve deception?”

“Yes.”

“Do you listen to anything I say?”

“I tune in and out.”

Paula looks ready to throttle him. “Out with it, idiot.”

“He needs to see us in action.”

"Well, yeah, that would be a good start,” Paula agrees with a roll of her eyes. “Seriously, it took you this long to figure that out? But he’s not exactly gagging to come back here after all your crap.”

Murdoc lets the insults ping off him with a smarmy smile.

“So we don’t use us two twats to get him in this time.” Murdoc widens his eyes dramatically at Paula. “It’s time to send in the big guns, Ritz.”

*

Stuart’s taking his slap off in his caravan when he sees movement out the corner of his eye. He turns to face the window and sees a face pop up then disappear back below the windowsill. He keeps watching and it happens twice more. It's a little kid, jumping, he assumes, trying to peer inside.

Gingerly, Stuart opens the door. He looks down and sees the kid is a total stranger: a girl, apparently Japanese, wearing a floor-length black coat secured with a fabric belt.

She ducks her head in a bow then beams at him. He mimics the bow, flummoxed, and she begins speaking in rapid fire Japanese. When it becomes clear that she's not going to let him get a word in edgeways, Stuart awkwardly interjects.

“Uh, sorry, I don’t speak Japanese. English? Do you,” he gestures to her, “speak English?” He gestures to his mouth.

She shakes her head and continues with her mile a minute monologue. Stuart is looking around for assistance, for a clue what's happening, when she points at herself.

“Watashi wa Noodle desu.”

“Eh?”

She jabs harder at herself.

“Noodle. Noodle desu.”

“You’re called Noodle?” That can't be right but, bizarrely, the girl makes a ecstatic noise and nods eagerly. Stuart can't help grinning at her enthusiasm.

“I’m Stuart.” He points at himself. She makes a thoughtful noise, then points and repeats.

“Suchuāto?”

“Stu-”

“Su-”

“Good enough,” he laughs and Noodle giggles, apparently delighted.

“Where are your parents, Noodle?” Stuart can see some of the troupe moving around the lot but there's no commotion, nothing to suggest anyone has spotted distraught Japanese parents looking for their child. Noodle looks at him blankly.

“Are you lost?” Stuart tries to mime looking for something, a hand shielding his eyebrows as he pretends to survey the lot. Noodle watches, puzzled, before grabbing his other hand and tugging as though to lead him. When he stays put, Noodle gives him a devastated look, bottom lip trembling, eyes glittering with tears. Stuart feels like the worst person in the world. He tries to placate her by following her a few paces and she reverts to her former sunny self, a skip in her step.

Noodle leads them towards the road and although the route is different, the destination is still clearly the warehouse. When realisation dawns, Stuart tries to dig his heels in.

“No, Su. We go,” Noodle insists, tone admonishing. Stuart reluctantly concedes when she begins sniffling.

A show seems ready to start and there's a small queue of people waiting to enter the warehouse. Stuart doesn't have any money on him, and he's trying to think of a way to mime that to Noodle, horrified at the prospect of her bawling her eyes out. Paula is manning the entrance in full regalia, a book of paper tickets in one hand. She eyes Stuart and Noodle, then gives Stuart a puzzled look.

“You have a beautiful daughter.” Stuart gives her a sarcastic smile.

“I think she's looking for her parents or something. Have you seen them in there?”

Paula studies Noodle again before shaking her head.  

“Not sure.”

“Can we at least go in and check?”

Paula rips two tickets out of the ticket book. Noodle grabs them and drags Stuart inside, squeezing past other guests to grab two seats in the front row. Stuart is still scanning the audience in the gloom.

“Noodle, can you see-”

The strings of white lights snap on. Murdoc strides out in his ringmaster costume and heels. Stuart’s eyes are instantly drawn to the whip in his hand.

“Pipe down, pipe down,” Murdoc says, looking around and taking the audience in through thoughtfully narrowed eyes. His eyelashes look longer than Stuart remembered. Stuart leans towards Noodle to ask if she’s spotted her parents but she hushes him sternly, grabbing his hand again to keep him from turning in his chair.

“We are here tonight for a very special offering,” Murdoc announces, spreading his arms and turning on the spot, as though meeting every single person’s eye. He definitely meets Stuart’s. Russel is sat at a drum kit by the far wall. He starts a punishing beat.

“An offering of our spirits this evening in unison.”

Murdoc gives his whip a single crack in time with the bass drum beat.

“Welcome to the Carnival,” he crows as the ring fills with musicians and performers.

The Carnival is like nothing Stuart’s ever seen. He watches with a combination of fascination and confusion. There’s something strangely adult and dark about the bass heavy music, but it's entrancing and a refreshing change from a circus waltz. The acts are eclectic to the point of being haphazard. There’s acrobats and dancers, spoken word and comic pieces. It’s enough to make Stuart’s head spin but Murdoc’s cocksure comments and occasionally poetic asides just about knit things together, Frankenstein-like.

Stuart jerks to his senses when Noodle lets go of his hand and makes to walk into the ring. He tries to grab the back of her coat but Noodle simply sheds it, revealing black trousers, a white t-shirt and a black leather belt covered in throwing knives. Stuart stares, bug-eyed.

Noodle takes a bow and Stuart sits slack jawed as Murdoc asks for a volunteer, only to put his own hand up milliseconds later, to a laugh from the audience. Murdoc walks to a freestanding wooden wall two performers wheel out and leans against it, eyes closed. Stuart takes in how straight his legs are in his stilettos, how his eyelids glisten with sweat and the glimmer of makeup.

Noodle pulls a knife from her belt and shows it to the audience with a toothy grin. Stuart thinks about how he was holding that hand earlier, while Noodle skipped down the road. She throws the knife deftly and skewers the wall inches from Murdoc’s side. The next few knives are thrown in quick succession. Murdoc’s breath doesn’t seem to hitch. By the time Noodle’s finished, there’s a serviceable outline of Murdoc cut into the wall. Murdoc gives Noodle’s hair a fond ruffle afterwards and Stuart lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

There's turns from strongmen and women and gymnasts. Paula swallow swords and Stuart does his best not to whimper. There’s trapeze artists. Stuart studies his hands as they perform but, judging by the gasps and cheers from the audience, their routine is impressive.

Towards the end of the show Murdoc pulls off his tailcoat, bow tie and shirt. His hands stray to the button of his trousers momentarily and Stuart’s apparently staring, given the way Murdoc grins a mile wide and mouths the word “perve”. Another performer passes Murdoc three lit torches and a bottle. Murdoc holds the torches in one hand while he swigs from the bottle with the other. Torches raised, he breathes out and creates an impressive plume of fire, getting a cheer from the crowd. He drops the bottle, smirking, and starts to juggle. The routine is relatively simple compared to the one Stuart had seen him performing the day before but it’s hypnotic and keeps such a tight rhythm with the music that Stuart only remembers to blink when his eyes feel dry.

Murdoc’s expression is entranced, off in his own world. He only seems to come back to his senses when his routine switches from torches to fire poi and he moves around the ring, coming to a halt in front of Stuart to give him an easy grin. The light of the fire plays on Murdoc’s face. Stuart can only stare.

When the show ends, Stuart’s brain tells him to head back to his caravan but his feet trail the telltale shadow of a top hatted figure around the warehouse to the winnebago. Murdoc only spots him when he clears his throat.

“Satan's sake,” the man gasps around his cigarette. “You need a bloody collar with a bell.”

“Sorry,” Stuart smiles apologetically. Murdoc  studies him thoughtfully.

“Deja vu this."

"Mm."

"How can I help? Trying to cadge a fag?”

“Smoking’s bad for you.”

“So’s breathing fire, I'll take my chances. C’mon, out with it.” For all his gruffness, Stuart can hear the anticipation in Murdoc's voice.

“You tricked me. Again.”

“Yeah. You're a bit gullible mate.”

"With a little kid.”

"Noodle. Good, in't she?”

“How's that legal?”

“Long story,” Murdoc dismisses. “Quit stalling. What’s your verdict?”

“Terrible. I want a refund.” Murdoc blanches momentarily before Stuart’s lip twitches upward. A look of relief washes over Murdoc and the man gives Stuart a playful slap on the arm.

“Cheeky tart,” Murdoc laughs. It's a nice laugh, Stuart thinks, chuntering, like a car trying and failing to start. “You didn't even pay. Seriously though, you could have pissed off back to the big top. It can't have been that bad.”

“It's good,” Stuart agrees. Murdoc’s expression sours.

“Good? Just good?”

“Well, it needs work-”

“Work? You're a fucking foetus, what d’you know about work?” Murdoc snaps before gritting his teeth in an apparent effort to silence himself. He opens his mouth as though to apologise but just takes a drag on his cigarette instead, brow knitted.

“How long have you been doing this now?” Stuart retorts.

Murdoc mouths a few numbers before saying, “twenty four years.”

“Sod off, how old are you?”

“Thirty two.”

Stuart does the maths quickly. “You had your own circus at eight? Come off it. I don't mean how long have you been juggling.”

“Fine, I've been making money at it for.” Another pause. “Twelve years.”

“Same. Maybe longer.” Murdoc looks quietly impressed. “So give me some bloody credit yeah?”

Murdoc seems reluctant to apologise, considering the floor before jabbing at the winnebago instead.

“Can we go inside, I'm freezing my tits off out here.”

Stuart shrugs and follows him in. The inside of the winnebago is barely contained chaos, every surface littered with empty take away containers and cider cans while a musty odour pervades. The only corner with any semblance of order houses an empty valet stand where Murdoc presumably hangs his ringmaster costume.

“Y’mind if I get out of this?” Murdoc asks, stubbing out cigarette and gesturing to his tailcoat.

“Sure.”

Murdoc makes quick work of it. He faces away as he undresses. Stuart inadvertently gets another glimpse of the man's off white briefs before he studies the floor instead.

“Feel free to cop a look,” Murdoc says over one shoulder. “I've got a lovely arse.” He gives it a wiggle as though to prove his point; Stuart doesn't dignify that with a response.

Murdoc is back to wearing black joggers when he flops on the bed, patting the space beside him. Stuart joins him, hands pressed against the mattress.

“Why'd you say eight?” Stuart asks. Murdoc looks uneasy at the question, picking up the remains of a Strongbow six pack. He opens two and hands one to Stuart, who takes it with a noise of thanks. “Paula said you were a street performer.”

“Eight's when I tried to run away with the circus.” It's not said jokingly. The words are a quiet admission, punctuated by Murdoc drinking his cider. He cups the can in his hands before looking across at Stuart with a thoughtful frown. “Why am I telling you this?”

The question is earnest enough to make Stuart feel like shivering.

“I don't know. You don't have to.”

“I know. I want to, though.”

Stuart doesn't know what to say to that. He feels an overwhelming urge to shuffle closer to Murdoc but settles for swigging his cider.

“My dad wasn't a very nice man.” Stuart senses the words are an understatement given the wry quality of Murdoc’s tone. “So I tried to run away with the circus when it came to town. Turns out, s’actually quite hard.”

“Yeah, we're not mobile orphanages.”

“They let me watch the show for free, though. And I nicked some juggling balls and started practicing,” Murdoc murmurs. “Kept me out of the house. I got good at it, ran away to London when I was a teenager, and started performing in the West End. Ritz kept walking past me when I was bedding down at Old Street station on her way to circus school and asked me about my juggling gear.” He pulls himself out of his reverie to give Stuart a smirk. “And now you're all caught up. Don't go making a movie about it, I'll sue.”

“It's impressive,” Stuart says and Murdoc's joking expression visibly falters. “What you've created. It's impressive.”

“Thanks,” Murdoc seems to swallow hard in an effort to keep his composure. Then, in a slightly sulking tone, he adds “but I hear it needs works.”

Stuart can't help rolling his eyes. “Still sore about that? Gotta be able to take criticism Dandy.”

The nickname makes Murdoc's eyes spark. He shuffles fractionally closer to Stuart, seemingly on the pretense of looking him in the eye. Stuart can't remember anyone studying him with such blatant fascination, even with the blue hair and the eyes.

“Tell me what you'd do different,” Murdoc asks quietly. Stuart is tempted to check the time. He takes a drink instead, gathers his thoughts and starts.

They talk until they're hoarse, until Stuart’s yawning and they're both laid down on Murdoc’s bed, several ciders deep. It's a small bed and they wind up on their sides facing one another, close enough that Stuart can feel Murdoc’s cider soured breath on his face, far enough that Stuart doesn’t go cross eyed looking at him.

“What about my act?” Murdoc asks croakily after they’ve dissected the rest of the show.

“Good.” It’s become a bit of a joke, Stuart never offering anything more than the word “good” to describe each act until Murdoc needles him for details and critiques. They chuckle and Murdoc shoves his arm. He doesn't let go afterwards, fingers gently cupping Stuart's upper arm. Stuart wonders if Murdoc can feel his goosebumps.

“Yeah, I get how very mediocre everything was,” Murdoc smirks. “Get more specific.”

“It was simple.”

“Sometimes simple is best. Less is more.”

“But you can do more, like yesterday. Rick Rubin’s Revenge.”

They both laugh at that.

“Yeah, well, people don’t tend to like it when I’m a smug prat.”

“Weird that,” Stuart jokes. “There’s a difference between being a pillock offstage and showing off onstage.”

“I suppose,” Murdoc nods. He’s studying Stuart intently, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips. Stuart instinctively wets his lips with his tongue and Murdoc chuckles under his breath before murmuring, “are you gonna kiss me or what?”

It tips Stuart over the edge: he closes the too small distance, almost whacking his forehead against Murdoc’s as he kisses him. Murdoc’s hand slips from his arm to the back of his neck, thumb stroking against the bump of his spine. Stuart rests his hand on Murdoc’s hip, smiling into the kiss and how earnestly Murdoc seems to return it, chasing each touch of Stuart’s lips.

“I should go,” Stuart whispers between kisses. Murdoc sighs against his mouth. The hand stroking his nape reluctantly pulls away.

“You shouldn't,” Murdoc says, voice thick from kissing. “In fact, you should-”

“I'm not arguing about joining the Carnival at,” Stuart checks his watch, “shit, two in the morning.” He hastily clambers off the bed. Murdoc pulls himself into a sitting position, hair tousled, expression unimpressed. His mouth is red from kisses and Stuart wonders if he looks the same with a flush of embarrassment.

“You leave on Wednesday. Where’re you going next?” Murdoc asks.

“Mansfield.” Murdoc’s face visibly falls. Stuart is tempted to climb back on the bed and try and tell some joke to get Murdoc smiling again. Then he wonders if his parents have spotted he’s missing and panic washes over him instead, waking him up. “What about you?”

“Nottingham.”

They study each other sadly for a moment.

“Come back tomorrow,” Murdoc demands. He gets to his feet, walking up to Stuart and stealing another kiss. Stuart returns it briefly then tears himself away before his progress towards the door can go into reverse.

“I need more of your notes,” Murdoc says. “See the show again.”

Stuart can't bring himself to promise one way or the other.

“And I still need to figure out your act.” The words prompt Stuart to open the door. “Speaking of, what is your real act?”

Stuart turns long enough to smirk at him. Murdoc's expression is equally playful.

“Keeping guessing Dandelion.”

Stuart heads out of the winnebago before he can change his mind. He lingers by the closed door, ostensibly taking a moment to sober up in the early morning air.

He swears he hears a muffled “fucking hell” from inside. He walks home smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist: the actual AU is Murdoc Not Being So Screwed Up and somehow that's weirder than this being circus themed. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and come say hey on tumblr if you'd like (elapsed-spiral).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The circus(es) leave town. Featuring Disney movies, iceberg lettuce and Murdoc getting in the best shape of his life.

Murdoc wakes with a start at some ungodly hour like eight. He tears out of the winnebago barefoot and scurries to Paula's caravan. She recognises his knock and opens the door wearing black knickers and a scowl.

“Is the warehouse on fire?”

“No.”

She looks him up and down. “Are you on fire?”

“No.”

“Then fuck off.”

“Wait wait-” Murdoc waves his arms frantically and Paula pauses in closing the door. “I figured out his act. It came to me in a dream.”

“Jesus wept. Tell me you were dressed in this dream.”

Murdoc spends enough time trying to remember that Paula grimaces.

“I don't need to know this at eight in the morning, Dandy. Only one of us wants to shag him, remember?”

“But I need your help.”

Russel pops his head out of the next caravan, drawn by the commotion.

“What’s going on?”

Paula makes a half hearted effort to cover her breasts with her arm and jerks her head at Murdoc by way of explanation. Russel gives him a weary look.

“What did you do Murdoc?”

“You're very mistrusting Russ.”

“Wonder why. Not like you placed an ad for a drummer claiming you had a band and what you actually had was some half assed performance art show that needed a soundtrack.”

“Less calling it performance art,” Murdoc warns with a wag of his finger. “Brings me out in hives.”

“You gonna say what you've done or what?”

“Nothing!” Murdoc gripes before giving a him an overly wide smile. “But I do need a favour.”

Russel folds his arms over his chest, eyebrows knitted.

“Oh yeah? Well I need brass instruments.”

Murdoc saw that coming.

“Why can't your mates just bring their own gear?”

“Because you're asking them to make their way from the States to some random fields in England and not even paying airfare. They've gotta travel light,” Russel starts ticking off instruments on his fingers. “Trumpets, trombones, baritone horn-”

“Add my tank to the nicking list,” Paula chimes in. Murdoc looks between them, aggrieved. Noodle is next to barrel around the corner, looking between the three adults with intense curiosity. Murdoc beckons her over and starts a conversation in broken Japanese. Russel frowns at the exchange.

“Why are you asking her how much she… has? Has what?”

“I don't know the word for weighs, alright? Doesn't come up much in casual conversation.” Murdoc picks Noodle up by the waist with a grunt of “fucking hell kiddo, since when d'you weigh a ton?” He still spins her around, Noodle cheering and kicking out her feet, before he deposits her back on the ground and rubs his back. “Okay, this is gonna be trickier than I thought. Ritz?” Murdoc turns to Paula, who raises one hand in a halting motion. “How much d'you weigh?”

“That depends, how badly do you want a slap? How are you this plastered already?”

“I'm totally sober. Can't afford to get drunk, I need to be able to lift a hundred and fifty pounds by Tuesday.”

There's a moment's silence, then Paula, Russel and Noodle proceed to rubbish his ambitions. Noodle sums up by giving him a thumbs down and blowing a raspberry.

“Well not with that attitude,” Murdoc grouses before turning to Paula. “C'mon, show me how you train.”

“I eat well, get up before noon and exercise,” Paula offers. Murdoc tries not to let the horror show on his face. Russel looks to Paula, realisation dawning.

“Wait, this is about that guy with the blue hair, right?”

“Stuart,” Murdoc says, knee jerk.

“You've got it bad.”

“What happened last night?” Paula gestures for Russel to shield Noodle's eyes before making a fairly obscene hand gesture.

“No.”

“How about?” Paula does another gesture, this time involving her tongue in her cheek.

“Satan's sake, no, we kissed! We just kissed!”

Russel drops his hand and everyone gawps at Murdoc.

“When did your life become a Disney movie?” Paula asks, bewildered. “What happened to the Murdoc who took that German hen party and-”

Russel clears his throat, jerking a thumb at Noodle. Paula shushes herself with an impishly apologetic smile.

“He kissed Stuart Tusspot,” Murdoc says, “that's what happened.”

Russel smiles, Noodle “aww”s and Paula looks ready to retch.

“I need to lift a hundred and fifty pounds by Tuesday,” Murdoc repeats. “So, for the next three days, I'm going to eat well, get up at dawn and exercise. Now are you lot gonna help or what?”

“How about this,” Russel says, “if you get me those instruments and I see you eat a salad, I'll go talk to him,” Noodle has a quick exchange with Russel, who adds, “and Noodle'll help more if you get her a tamagotchi.”

Murdoc's getting flashbacks to the Christmas he worked as a santa at the Co-op.

“Well?” Russel asks. “We on?”

“Fetch me an iceberg lettuce,” Murdoc says with a steely look of determination. “You've got yourself a deal Russ.”

*

“You need a theme.”

Stuart can't help laughing when Murdoc jumps a foot in the air. It's not like his presence should come as a surprise since he'd been sat, front and centre, at that night's performance. Murdoc had clearly noticed him too, since he'd almost clobbered himself with one of his poi while darting looks Stuart’s way. Murdoc whips around to face him, giving him a well meaning glare.

“And you still need a collar with a bell,” Murdoc grumbles as he opens the winnebago door and ushers him in.

“Bit kinky, how much you think about me in a collar,” Stuart says casually. Murdoc stubs out his cigarette with more force than necessary before changing out of his costume and into his joggers. He doesn't bother to turn his back to Stuart this time and Stuart makes no effort to look away. The colour rises in Murdoc's cheeks.

“Well I didn't think it was kinky before but now I do,” Murdoc mutters. They lie down on the bed, heads propped up on Murdoc's surprisingly plentiful silk pillows as they drink cider in silence, shooting occasional sidelong glances at one another.

“What theme you got in mind?” Murdoc asks when they've finished their drinks. Stuart leans across Murdoc to deposit his empty can on the floor, pressing against Murdoc's side momentarily. He hears Murdoc’s breath catch and gets harder. He sees Murdoc's gaze pan down to his tenting joggers, then up to his face, expression hungry. Stuart swallows thickly.

“Are you gonna give me a handy or what?” he asks with a shit eating grin. Murdoc barks a laugh. He reaches for Stuart, pulling him closer with a mutter of “horny bastard” before working his hands down the back of his joggers and pants and shoving both down his thighs. Stuart lets out a pretty pathetic whine at the sudden exposure, which seems to trigger a groan from Murdoc.

“I'm not even touching you yet,” Murdoc says, breathily, fingers digging into Stuart's backside. “And how come you're not returning the favour?”

Stuart's already spending more time staring at Murdoc's crotch than his face. He works the man's bottoms down, Murdoc lifting his hips to give him access. They alternate between staring at each other's faces, then cocks, then faces, then practically lunge at one another. They proceed to bash foreheads, hissing in pain at the impact.

“Sorry,” Murdoc laughs with surprise, reaching out to give Stuart’s temple an oddly tender kiss. “You alright?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Stuart chuckles.

“This'll make it feel better,” Murdoc murmurs, wrapping his hand around Stuart's cock and starting to pump. Stuart's toes curl and he almost forgets to reciprocate. Open mouthed, he takes Murdoc's cock in hand, the angle feeling odd at first. They study each other, Stuart unable to keep himself from gasping a string of curses as Murdoc adjusts his rhythm and grip. Stuart tries to match him and Murdoc keens, eyes closing tight. It's not long before Stuart's hand starts losing any semblance of rhythm, then, head tilted back, he comes with a grunted “fuck”. Murdoc's hand, sticky with his cum, covers his and they finish him off together, faces close, not kissing so much as sharing air. Murdoc comes with a cry that sends a jolt down Stuart's spine.

Murdoc grabs an old, crunchy towel from somewhere and they wipe their hands off before lying back down, panting. Murdoc shuffles until his head is resting on Stuart's collar bone and Stuart wonders if he can feel his heart racing.

“My head feels better now, thanks,” Stuart says when he's got his breath back. Murdoc presses his face against his chest, presumably to hide a smile.

“Glad to hear it.”

Sometime later, after Stuart has slung an arm across Murdoc's back, the man mutters into his chest.

“What's wrong with the theme we've got?”

It takes Stuart a moment to engage his brain.

“Wasn't aware you had one.”

“Pandemonium. And monochromatic,” Murdoc gesticulates lazily, “stuff.”

“I think that's more coincidental. Maybe you could use a theme from your poetry.”

Murdoc props himself up so he can shoot Stuart a displeased look.

“I don't write poetry.”

“What d'you call that stuff in your show then?”

“Just words. I just write down words then say ‘em out loud.”

Stuart gives him an unconvinced look so Murdoc continues “poetry's poncy, I'm not poncy.”

“Fine, then what do you write about when you definitely don't write poetry?”

“Space. The sea,” Murdoc gives him a leer. “Sex.”

“How about space?”

“We're not fucking Cirque de Soleil, Stu.”

“But you need something to draw it all together.”

It's only then that Stuart appreciates he's laid there with his cock out. He pulls his joggers back up and Murdoc follows suit, snorting a laugh through his nose.

“It's not a terrible idea,” Murdoc concedes.

“Bloody hell, can I get that in writing?”

“Yes, if you join the Carnival.”

Stuart gives him a look. Murdoc just grins. He spots Murdoc's pocket watch, hanging from a nail by the back window and reaches for it. Murdoc's hand closes gently around his wrist.

“Stay,” Murdoc looks into Stuart's face. His eye make up has mostly migrated to his cheeks and under eyes, making the bags there glitter. “It's already Monday. You leave Wednesday. Just stay.”

Stuart's chest hurts. It might be from drinking cider lying down but probably isn't.

“Promise not to keep asking me to join?” he asks but he's already lying back down, arm wrapping about Murdoc once more.

“For now. I'll save it ‘til the morning.”

He wakes up to a dead arm and toenails digging into his calf. Looking down, Stuart sees Murdoc sprawled on top of him, snoring, morning wood prodding Stuart's hip. He reaches out for Murdoc's pocket watch again, the man's head heavy on his chest. He manages to pop the case open and squints at the hands.

“Shit, Murdoc.” He jostles the man, who just grumbles and nuzzles his chest. “Murdoc, I've got to go.” Murdoc offers another uninterested grunt. “Murdoc, get off me, I need to go, it's six.”

“Six pm?”

“A.M.”

“Christ, go back t'sleep.”

“I need to get back to Tusspot's.”

“Fuck ‘em, they'll live.”

The words wake Stuart up. He pushes Murdoc up enough to climb out from under him and looks around for his clothes. He gives up on trying to find both socks and just slips his trainers on. Murdoc takes the opportunity to go to the bathroom. There's a sound like a fire hose spraying then a call of “something I said?”

Stuart considers keeping quiet but the obnoxious quality of Murdoc's voice (and pissing) makes him reply.

“Do you have any respect for what we do?”

Murdoc finally reappears, tucking himself away with a frown.

“What? Who?”

“Tusspot’s. You keep asking me to leave it, so you must think it's easily done.”

He's clearly blindsided Murdoc, who folds his arms defensively.

“It's not exactly original.”

Stuart feels his heart sink.

“What?”

It's clear Murdoc knows he's digging a hole but his arms cross tighter, a frown growing on his face.

“What, you want me to say it's original? Clowns, girls with feathers on their heads and a circus waltz? That's exactly why I keep telling you to join us, Stu, it must bore you senseless, it's-”

“It's what?”

Murdoc's eyes narrow.

“It's derivative.”

Stuart feels tears prick his eyes. He takes a second to find something to say that isn't an insult or a swear word.

“My great great grandad founded Tusspot's in 1892. One hundred and six years,” his voice cracks but he carries on. “One hundred and six years of derivative, boring circuses. All my life, that's all I've known. That place has been my school and my playground, and it's my home where my family and friends live and you just shit on it and expect me to trot off and join you?” He gives his eyes a quick rub and Murdoc just studies him, jaw clenched. “I'd never say the Carnival was worse because it's newer or weirder. I'd never do that to you Murdoc.”

Murdoc swallows hard and takes to staring at the floor. Stuart waits for him to say something. When it becomes clear he's not going to, Stuart makes for the door, shoes still untied.

“I won't see the show tonight,” Stuart says quietly. “Tell the others I'm sorry.”

He doesn't wait around for a response. When Stuart’s back at the lot, his mum spots his missing socks and his eyes start watering despite himself. She gathers him in her arms and if her shirt is damp when he pulls away, she doesn't mention it.

*

“How. Many. Sit ups. Was that?” Murdoc gasps. He imagines he's doing a passable impression of a dying whale.

“Five,” Paula says, a hand still on either of Murdoc's knees. Murdoc lets out an unmanly noise as he flops back to the warehouse floor, clutching his stomach as he wheezes for breath. “We haven't even started on arms, Dandy.”

“But,” he takes another winded breath. “But no-one can say I didn't eat that salad.”

“You washed it down with Strongbow,” Paula prods his stomach and Murdoc curls into a ball. The motion winds up hurting more so he opts for spread eagling instead.

“Don't you think this might be too little too late?”

“I'm not that out of shape,” Murdoc retorts. His heart rate begs to differ.

“I mean after your tiff this morning. Trouble in paradise.”

Murdoc hoists himself up on his elbows so he can give Paula a look.

“How d'you know about that? Your caravan's nowhere near the ‘bago.”

“I have my sources. Blue haired guys creeping out of your “bago” in the wee hours tend to get people talking.”

“Didn't know we had so many nosy bastards around.”

“What did you do?”

Setting his pride aside feels like as much of an effort as the exercise.

“I said Tusspot's was derivative.”

Paula looks a combination of disappointed and sympathetic.

“God you're stupid.”

“I'm very aware of that fact, cheers Ritz.” Murdoc gets ungracefully to his feet. With a hasty muttered prayer to the big man below, he walks over to Paula's gymnastics equipment and attempts to pull himself up on one overhead bar. He gets precisely nowhere, dangling from it as though from monkey bars. Paula shakes her head, pushes him aside and proceeds to do pull ups, berating him as she goes.

“I really hope this isn't your only plan. After your performance this morning, it's not like he's coming back of his own accord. Did you at least shag?”

“Hand job.”

“Bloody Disney movie,” Paula scoffs.

“I don't know what Disney movies you're watching Ritz." Murdoc looks up at Paula as she sits on the top of the frame and looks down at him from her moral and literal high ground. “I'm going to fix it.”

“God loves a trier I suppose.”

“Satan too.” Murdoc has another go at a pull up to prove his point and manages to raise himself up fractionally. He doesn't quite swallow the accompanying tennis player style grunt.

“So what's your next brilliant plan?” she asks, yanking him up by the back of his vest top so he can join her on top of the frame. She wraps an arm around him and he leans on her, muscles burning, panting like a dog.

“It's already in train.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, it's with the postman as we speak.”

*

Stuart can't say he's surprised when Mike tells him there's some guy with a little Asian kid wandering around the lot looking for him. What's more surprising is that it turns out to be Russel.

“Hi Su!” Noodle beams. Stuart can't help returning her mile wide smile.

“Alright Noodle.” He offers his hand for Russel to shake. “Russ. Your turn to convince me, eh?”

Russel gives him an impressively firm handshake.

“Nah man, I just needed a break from the madness,” Stuart gestures to a few folding chairs by his caravan and they sit down, Noodle pulling her legs up under her as she fiddles with some egg shaped toy clasped in her hand. When Stuart only gives him a sympathetic look, Russel carries on. “He's having a meltdown so I figured I'd get out of the way. That and he agreed to buy me some new instruments if I came and talked to you. Never said what I had to talk about.” Russel shakes his head. “Murdoc's terrible with detail.”

Stuart likes Russel already.

“Your music’s amazing, by the way,” Stuart can't help gushing. Russel gives him a warm smile.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks man, I do my best. I hear you've got a great voice.”

“I just sing a little ditty, s’nothing hard.”

“You ever thought about learning an instrument?”

Stuart narrows his eyes playfully.

“I thought you weren't here to convince me.”

Russel gives an easy shrug. “Just making conversation.”

“My dad always says I have a piano player’s hands,” Stuart jokes, holding them up. The gesture catches Noodle's attention and she gets out of her chair so she can hold her hand against Stuart's to compare. It's barely as big as his palm and she laughs when he closes his fingers over it. The toy in her other hand chirrups and both Noodle and Stuart glance at it. Noodle says something triumphant sounding.

“Murdoc got her a tamagotchi for agreeing to keep helping with his plan,” Russel explains.

“Oh yeah? Is it good Noodle?” Stuart asks. He pulls Noodle's chair closer so she can lean over the arm and show him the little gadget. He feels very old as she presses each button and explains away in Japanese, gesturing to the little blob on screen. She even gives him the opportunity to press one of the device's three buttons and shoots him an alarmed look when he makes to press what is, evidently, the wrong one. He opts for another button instead and Noodle and the blob dance happily.

“What's he called?” Stuart asks, pointing to the little creature. “Name?”

“Su.”

“He's called Su too?” he grins. Noodle nods enthusiastically. Other Su does a poo and Stuart does his best not to laugh. Russel watches him with apparent approval.

“You're good with kids.”

“We've got a few around, y'know? There's whole families in Tusspot’s. You guys seem more… random.”

“I guess, but it's a kind of family. More modern.” Russel's choice of words makes Stuart bristle despite himself.

“About that. I hear Murdoc said some stupid stuff," Russel says, reaching into a jacket pocket and pulling out a white envelope.

Stuart makes a noise of agreement, watching as Noodle plays with Su the blob. Su looks decidedly happier than he is. Stuart makes a point of ignoring the letter until Russel actually holds it out for him to take.

“If you get the feeling Murdoc does dumb stuff a lot, you'd be right. He leaps then looks.”

“So you are here to convince me,” Stuart says, tone a little hurt.

“Literally all I agreed to do was talk and give you this. You can throw it out if you want.” Stuart reluctantly takes the letter. It's sealed with red wax, embossed with a pentagram and his name is written on the envelope in black swirling cursive. Murdoc's clearly used a fountain pen. Stuart looks up and Russel offers him a shrug.

“Murdoc is… a lot of work.”

Noodle gestures for him to open the envelope and Stuart breaks the seal. The letter is brief:

_From the desk of M. F. Niccals_

_Stuart_

_I was a bellend._

_There's a difference between derivative and traditional. Tusspot’s is important. It reminds me of the circus I tried to run away with when I was a kid. There's a place for what you do. There's a place for what the Carnival does too. I don't know how to square that circle. Perhaps we can't._

_Our time together has been special. I won't forget it. I'll try and come up with a theme, in your honour (is the concept of time too abstract?)._

_Sorry_

_Dandy_

_P.S._

_I figured out your act. I'll prove it if you come over Tuesday after the show._

_P.P.S._

_I'm also up for a shag. Again, swing by Tuesday if interested x_

Stuart passes the letter to Russel to read. He scans it and shakes his head wearily.

“I think you guys are seeing this as either or. It's not like you're star crossed lovers.”

“What d'you mean?”

“Well, why not meet in the middle? It's not that Tusspot's is bad and the Carnival is good or vice versa. They're just different.”

“I'm not going to leave Tusspot’s, I can't. My parents don't have any other kids, I couldn't do that to them,” Stuart says, voice catching.

“So don't. The only people who think you can't do both is you two. Stuart, if you like what we do, you can be a part of it. That's how the Carnival operates: people drop in and out, they stay a while, they move on, they come back. The only thing that binds it together is a desire to make it work. If you've got that, you're a part of it.”

Stuart folds the letter back up carefully and rests it on his lap.

“Murdoc's doing his dumbass best but you've gotta meet halfway man.”

Stuart nods, as does Noodle, who shoots him another mile wide smile that threatens to give him heartburn.

“Out of interest, what is Noodle's role in Murdoc's plan?” he asks in an undertone.

Russel smirks. “It was, and I'm quoting, to “be cute”.”

Noodle's smile turns wickeder, like the one she wears just before throwing knives. It's still disturbingly sweet.

“She's succeeding.”

“You don't have to tell me man.”

*

The warehouse is empty, save for the aerial equipment and net. Stuart's about to walk back out when a voice, gruff and northern and fond, calls out.

“Alright Double L.”

He looks up and sees Murdoc sat on one platform next to a trapeze swing. Murdoc gestures to the opposite platform and swing.

“Take a pew, Stu.”

Stuart looks at the equipment then down at the floor.

“Think I've figured out your act, mate,” Murdoc says.

“Yeah, top notch clown me.” Murdoc sniggers. “I'll stay down here, thanks.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Because you fell?”

“Yeah,” Stuart agrees softly.

“Wasn't there a net?”

“There was a net. Don't really understand how it happened. Maybe ‘cause I was so little, I just bounced off it, fell into the audience, bashed my head on a seat.”

“Christ. How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“But it didn't put you off. Not forever, anyway.” Stuart forces himself to look up, unable to make out Murdoc’s expression.

“Are you listening to what I'm saying?”

“I am, but you're lying.” Before Stuart can protest, Murdoc jabs a finger at him. “Look at you, you didn't get muscles like that doing your forward rolls.”

Stuart bows his head, trying and failing to think of a retort.

“So why don't you do it for the show? When do you even do it?”

“When we're packing up. I sneak it in a go when no-one's watching.”

“Naughty naughty, what would your mum say?”

Stuart feels queasy at that.

“That's why, actually." He swallows hard and waits until his voice is level. “It upsets my mum too much, watching me.”

There's an awkward silence.

“Bad joke,” Murdoc says. Then, with apparent effort. “Sorry.”

“You didn't know. Are you coming down or what?”

“Weather's lovely up here.”

With a sigh, Stuart walks over to the other ladder, takes a rung in his hand and huffs out his breath. He toes off his trainers then makes quick work of the ladder, untying the swing and holding it in one hand. With another slow breath in and out, Stuart leans forward and jumps off the platform. He grabs the bar with his other hand and just swings back and forth, legs stretched out behind him. After a time, Stuart pulls his legs up and hooks them over the bar so he can dangle upside down. Murdoc swims in and out of view, expression impossible to read. He's humming a circus waltz so Stuart flips him off and Murdoc laughs appreciatively. Stuart hoists himself up and stands on the bar, a wire in either hand.

“You're not a trapeze artist are you?” Stuart asks as he swings closer to Murdoc.

“No, but I've been practising.”

“Why?” Stuart does a frontflip on the swing and Murdoc seems to lose his train of thought momentarily.

“Er, as a gesture? You know, to show I mean business. I've been weightlifting and everything.”

“Were you gonna try and catch me?” Stuart shakes his head despairingly. “You seriously thought the way to show you meant business was to try and catch a guy who fell off a trapeze after you've only practised for two days?”

Murdoc's grimace swims into focus as Stuart swings towards him again.

“It sounds stupider when you say it like that,” Murdoc admits. “I thought it'd be like they do for team building exercises, like a trust thing.”

“Sounds more like a death thing. You're an idiot, Dandelion.”

“Hey, I'll bill you for using my equipment if you keep rubbishing me.”

“Sorry,” Stuart grins. He drops down, holds the bar in both hands again and just swings back and forth, occasionally flipping around to face the opposite direction. When he's facing Murdoc he adds, “but I could catch you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just like in one of those team building exercises, y'know?”

“Yeah yeah, alright,” Murdoc gripes. “I get it, I didn't think things through. I'm more of a big picture guy.”

“So I hear.”

“Smart arse. You seem like you're having plenty of fun by yourself, don't let me cramp your style.”

“Don't trust me? How d'you expect to work together if you don't trust me?”

“You move on tomorrow,” Murdoc says curtly. “There is no working together. All my plans to get you to join have failed. The last one was this, saying you could perform on the trapeze if you came with us.”

Stuart can't stop beaming at the prospect.

“You've tried all your plans but I haven't tried any of mine yet.”

“Wasn't aware you had any.”

“I was thinking about those licences you have from the council.”

“What about them?” Murdoc says defensively.

“You know, how real they are.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And I thought maybe you could get some equally real licences for these places instead,” Stuart holds the bar with one hand so he can pull Tusspot’s upcoming itinerary from his pocket. “You could even use some of those labels you've got to cover your old show times and push everything back, say, ninety minutes?”

Murdoc stands there, staring at him.

“Well?” Stuart prompts when Murdoc doesn't say anything.

“It sounds like you're only half on board.”

“It sounds like a compromise.” Murdoc makes a noise of distaste. “It doesn't have to be all or nothing. It'll be good for you guys: I've got a unique perspective, don't I? That's why we were up all night talking. That and the handjobs.”

Murdoc is clearly mulling it over.

“I could be your creative consultant,” Stuart grins. He tucks the list back in his pocket, hooks his legs over the bar and swings upside down, arms out. “Well?”

“S'tempting.”

“Then come get the list off me.”

It takes a moment, then Murdoc unties the other swing. He waits, clearly gauging Stuart's rhythm before taking off. Stuart watches him upside down and sees Murdoc pull his legs up over the bar and drop his arms.

“Reach out and grab me,” Stuart says. “I'll tell you when I've got you and then you can drop down, alright?”

“Alright.”

They swing back and forth for a while, Stuart catching glances of Murdoc's outstretched hands. They edge closer and closer until they touch Stuart’s.

“Got you.”

Stuart's hands clamp firmly around Murdoc's arms and Murdoc's hands hold his. He feels Murdoc drop down and swing below him, smiling at Murdoc’s weight, at how relaxed he feels under his grip.

“So, what's my starting salary? I'm thinking six figures.”

“Let me down and gimme that list, Spiderman,” Murdoc snickers.

Murdoc slows them down with the movement of his legs. When they're just swaying, he says “okay, let go” and drops to a sitting position on the net. After he's moved out of the way, Stuart lowers himself down to join him. They awkwardly crawl over to one another and Murdoc leans across him, hand reaching into his pocket for the itinerary. He reads its contents intently, as though committing them to memory.

“This could work,” Murdoc says softly. Stuart smiles wider.

“I know. I'm a mechanic, I know how to fix things.”

“Even stupid ideas?”

“Yeah. But you've got lovely handwriting.” Murdoc gives him a shove and Stuart bounces on the netting as he laughs.

“Piss off.”

“Well I can, or I could take you up on that P.P.S.,” Stuart says nonchalantly. The words have barely left his mouth before his arms are full of Murdoc.

*

Stuart slips away when the sun rises. They kiss by the door of the winnebago, Murdoc murmuring “see you in Mansfield then?”

“Yeah, until Mansfield,” Stuart agrees against his lips. They wrinkle their noses at one another’s morning breath. They kiss again anyway.

Stuart sneaks back into his own bed and lies there until his alarm goes off, barely an hour later, then goes and helps finish loading the lorries, stifling yawns and smiles as he goes. By mid morning he's sat in the cab of one lorry with his dad, glancing at the wing mirror. When they drive down curved stretches of road, he catches glimpses of the clapped out winnebago behind the liveried Tusspot's lorries.

“You're happy this morning,” his dad says, sounding pleased. “Who's got you smiling like that?”

“No-one,” Stuart makes no effort to suppress his grin. “Just some twat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this nonsense! 
> 
> Feel free to swing (see what I did there) by my tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you want to say hey. Thanks for reading!


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